


the voice for the words written to my heart

by myhandisempty



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, complete pwp inspired by 2/8/16 raw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows a lot of magic words. Or, maybe, just one. That's the only explanation Roman has for the fact that he can never seem to say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the voice for the words written to my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I see things like Dean saying "please" to Roman and have deep, analytical things to say about it. And then, sometimes, this happens instead.

Dean knows a lot of magic words. The type that seep through the cracks of armored skin, that stick with you and have you feeling their after effects for days. He has a knack for weeding out what people want to hear and what they don't, and he's merciless in his application of both. And with Roman, well.

 

More often than not — mumbled against lips, voice well above a whisper but still just for Roman — they result in the two of them here, Dean spread out beneath him, pulling Roman down into a kiss that he can feel in his toes, curling them in the socks he hasn’t managed to kick out of just yet. Dean is too busy wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, breathing, “C’mere,” right into his mouth, like Roman is casually lounging on the other side of the goddamn room and not smothering him on the bed — like Dean can’t bring himself to pull far enough away from Roman to actually say the words rather than exhale them — and Roman is in no mood to be contrary. Dean asks for things in a lot of different ways, and Roman wouldn’t exactly call it a weakness, his near inability to deny him. Not at all.

 

Some things, like anchovies on a shared pizza or the aisle seat of the plane, the type of inconsequential things Dean doesn’t even like and only requests because his mouth runs away from him before he thinks or he’s curious for Roman’s reaction, Roman’s thoughts, are a lot easier to say no to. This, though. Even at their worst, he’s never been able to turn away from Dean.

 

“I need to get you stripped down,” Roman manages when he has enough time and space to breathe, again.

 

“Please.” The tone of voice, the smirk crossing Dean’s face, the half-hooded eyes he’s staring up with, say _by all means_ , say _be my guest_ , but he arches his back up into Roman’s hands with a fervor that’s all too telling. Dean is always a little more honest when he’s touching Roman, and Roman supposes the same is true of him, too. The way he shoves the fabric of Dean’s shirt up — ineffective, as he’s more concerned with flattening his palm to Dean’s chest and side, running over as much of the exposed skin as possible rather than removing it altogether — says an awful lot, at least. The comma of Dean’s body, crunched on one side, stretched long on the other, exposes delicate ridges of skin covered bone, and Roman sucks in a quick, involuntary breath at the sensation of his fingers settling into the grooves between his ribs. It's difficult to imagine ever tiring of all the ways they fit together.

 

One hand presses Dean’s hip down into the bed while the thumb of the other brushes firmly against his nipple. He hums out a sound, caught halfway between a laugh and a moan, and tries to prop himself up on his elbows to watch the slow slide of Roman’s hand upward. Impatient as always, he licks chapped lips with a thoughtful expression, and Roman holds the air in his lungs in anticipation of what the next words will be.

 

“I’ll ‘uv aged ten years by the time you get my damn clothes off,” he grumbles, and Roman really should have expected as much. Dean grabs the bunched up fabric from under his arms and pulls the shirt off himself. Roman just sits back on his haunches and watches, one leg starting to fall asleep under him as Dean tosses his t-shirt across the room and returns his attention to Roman. As distracted as the other man’s mind is, at times, it’s a huge amount of focus to have trained entirely on him. Roman’s palms are sweaty — he wipes them off on the handfuls of linens he grabs. Dean’s enthusiasm, his need to get where he wants to be and waste as little time as possible doing so, is sometimes contagious and occasionally amusing. Tonight, it’s more the latter — he can complain all his heart desires, but Roman has no intention of rushing through anything.

 

He wishes they had more time, not just now, but in general — that he could have a minute for every single part of Dean he appreciates and could spend each one of them whispering those truths into his skin. The two of them, though, they have an eternity, however long that means to Dean. He knows Dean has a certain level of uneasiness over that, even now, is still waiting for the difference between _forever_ and _for now_ , but Roman doesn’t mind spending every day slowly and surely proving that always does exist.

 

“Well?” Dean arches an eyebrow, gestures toward his own body with one hand, and Roman nearly reaches out to catch it in his own, press his lips against the palm that’s wrapped up and covered more often than not these days. He has to shove his own hand under his leg to stop it.

 

Instead, he sits tight and blinks back at Dean, hopes he’s stopping the lovesick grin in his thoughts from spreading all over his face. “Looks like you’re doing just fine on your own there, killer.”

 

Dean shoots him a look, a _really?_ , a _that’s what you’re going with?_ , and Roman gives him the facial equivalent of a shrug, eyes wide and lips pulled in, quirked to the side. Dean just rolls his eyes in response, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his jeans, hips raised to shimmy both them and his underwear down his legs. Roman stifles a laugh and doesn’t move to help — his position, in fact, is hindering Dean, but the view is much too good for him to care.

 

“That’s better,” Roman praises. Dean may be full of complaints, but his interest isn’t flagging in the slightest, and when he scowls and pulls Roman down into another kiss, slower and sloppier than the ones before, his cock is pressed against Roman’s hip and one hand is tangled loosely in his hair, the other one hot and heavy on his lower back, tugging at his shirt, and Roman pulls away to let him.

 

Chest exposed and staring down at Dean, naked underneath him, Roman listens as the sound of the other man’s panting fills the room. Dean is loud, his movement, his expressions and actions as well, even when his voice isn’t. There are so few noises of his Roman doesn’t like.

 

“I know you’re all for, like, savoring the moment or whatever,” Dean’s voice reaches him before Roman realizes he’s closed his eyes, “but c’mon. You’re killin’ me, here.” His hand has grabbed his cock and is stroking up and down, slow and steady, his teeth digging into his lower lip. It’s an enticing sight — Dean’s always been good at putting on a show.

 

“I can see that,” Roman comments dryly, and grabs Dean’s wrists in his hands, pushing them down into the mattress. A low whine comes from the base of his throat, one that he’ll deny when Roman brings it up, later, but he doesn’t move his arms from where Roman’s placed them when he lets go. Roman slides a hand up his thigh, runs fingers over the crest of his hipbone repeatedly. “I’ve been awful nice to you, so far. You gonna ask me nicely? Gonna say please?”

 

It’s just the wrong — or right — thing to say. Dean smirks, sharp in a way that smoothes the rest of his face, dimples visible under two days worth of stubble. “How about this, you benevolent dick, you, how about you please _me_ right now.” He thrusts his hips up, his erection insistently bumping the underside of Roman’s wrist. His grin really shouldn’t be charming at all, in this situation, but, well. Still, it’s not a weakness.

 

Roman levels him with his most unimpressed glare, maintaining eye contact with those heavy lidded blues as he licks his palm. Something sparks across Dean’s face, his smile allowing his tongue to poke out of his mouth, and Roman watches him bite down on it as he finally wraps a hand around Dean. He starts up a slow, easy pace, making sure not to reward Dean for pushing up too hard into him, pins his hips back down with his free hand whenever the other man gets a little overzealous.

 

“Good, that’s — ’s good,” Dean proclaims, and then he falls silent for a moment before he laughs. Not a snort or a cackle or a hysteric giggle, just a low, rolling laugh, deep in his chest. Roman isn’t sure what he’s laughing at, just knows that it sounds like a confession falling from his mouth. “You. You are. And me. We’re — we’re good, we’re fuckin’ good, right?” He laughs again, and this time Roman chuckles along with him.

 

“Yeah,” Roman says. The miles of skin under his fingertips, the sound of Dean’s laughter in the otherwise quiet room, they’re making him lightheaded, and he dips his head to steal a quick kiss and recenter himself. When he pulls away, Dean chases his lips until he can’t reach any further, and then Dean’s giving him this look, like Roman is the only person he’s wanted to see all day, and it’s impossible, Dean is impossible, no one should ever have to deal with someone like Dean. “Yeah. Me, and you. We’re great.”

 

“Fuckin’ right, we’re great.” Roman’s been speeding his movements up, gradually, and words start to escape Dean a little bit. He pants into the air, tries to create more leverage, friction, with his hips again, and this time, Roman lets him before he stops stroking him altogether. Dean frowns in confusion, for a second, Roman’s hand still on his cock, before he squints up at him. “Get distracted, there? See somethin’ you like?”

 

Roman waits a few seconds, long enough that Dean’s breathing evens out, again, before he answers. “Haven’t decided, yet.”

 

“Rude,” is Dean’s response, a scoff that twists his face in the yellowed lighting, “Should teach you some goddamn manners,” and Roman chooses that moment to resume his efforts. Dean lets out a low cry and tries to maintain his scowl through the way his face is going lax with pleasure. “See if I ever compliment that overly sculpted chest of yours again.”

 

“Liar,” Roman grins, more to himself, and gives a light squeeze, just enough pressure that Dean’s hands scramble against the sheets and he lets out a groan, mouth falling open. Roman likes the way his lips move around the string of vowels, trying to form words he can’t quite get out.

 

“Okay, yeah,” he stammers an agreement, and Roman would laugh again if it weren’t for how thick and heavy the air feels in his lungs, how tight his pants have been for the last twenty minutes. He picks up the pace again, watching carefully until that furrow appears between Dean’s eyebrows, that telltale sign that he’s closer than he’ll admit, and then cuts off all stimulation again. “Jesus Christ!” Dean complains loudly, eyes snapping to Roman’s. “Don’t fuckin’ start anything you ain’t willing to finish.”

 

Roman uses the hand that’s not curled protectively around Dean’s dick, less than an inch away from touching him, again, to thumb at the dip right below his hipbone. He hums nonchalantly. “You’re the one started this.” It’s true, Dean is always starting things — Roman wants to ask if the words _couldn’t stop thinkin’ about this all night_ , _wanted to get my hands and mouth and cock all over you_ , _looked so fuckin’ gorgeous in the ring_ , _Rome_ , _holy shit_ , ring a bell, because they’re still fresh in his memory, burning up his brain — but that’s not the point. “I fully plan on finishing it.”

 

Dean looks like he has several things to say about that, but Roman cuts him off with a swipe of his thumb over the head of his cock, twisting his wrist and stroking him again. The sound that he makes, God, the _sound_ , this suppressed moan trailing off in a whimper. Roman likes most of Dean’s noises, but this one may be his very favorite. He leans into Dean again, sucks a bruise into the hollow just above his collarbone, the most delicate part of his body that Roman can physically reach. It’s a reminder of all the other marks he’s left, below the skin, the ones only the two of them can see.

 

There’s no smart remark when Roman pauses in his ministrations, this time, just a tremor going through Dean’s legs as he folds them up a bit at the knees. His chest is shuddering and even his breath shakes as it hisses out through his teeth. Roman, in contrast, is solid around him, steady and decisive in his movements, even with his heart thundering away in the constricted area somewhere between his chest and his throat.

 

“I’ll give you what you want,” Roman tells him, beginning the slow motions of his hand again, Dean choking out a laugh beneath him that sounds vaguely amused and clearly frustrated. “I will, but I can’t if you don’t ask.” He gets distracted by the sweat that’s gathered along Dean’s hairline, the way one drop slides down toward his temple, and then another. The sight, coupled with the metronomic sound of their heavy breaths, is hypnotizing, and it’s a good minute before Roman realizes that Dean is speaking, again.

 

“Please.” It’s hushed, another word that comes out more air than voice, Dean’s chest working hard against Roman’s forearm. “Please, please, please,” under his breath, over and over again. And Roman, part of him really, really wants to push Dean even further, ask him please, what, but. Dean’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, head tilted back and throat exposed, and Roman’s own goes dry as he watches him.

 

“This is torture, seeing you like this,” he admits, his hand speeding up without his brain’s permission. Dean is thrusting up into every stroke, and the breathless words have stopped because he’s biting his lip so hard it looks like it hurts. The flush from his face has spread to his neck and chest, and his whole body is glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His arms still haven’t moved from where Roman pinned them forever ago. He looks amazing. “You’re torture.”

 

Dean peeks through one dazed eye at him, searching out Roman’s. His mouth is hanging open, now, and Roman never knew it was possible to appear so debauched, so adorable, all at the same time. “Look who’s talkin’.” It’s a gasp, before his head falls back, again, Roman giving a twist of his wrist a couple times before charging on full speed ahead. He leans down, concentrating hard on keeping up the rhythm his hand has fallen into, and places an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Dean’s dick. “Fuck,” Dean breathes, and when Roman slides his hand down and his mouth over the head of his cock, he lets out a long, low, moan. “Fuck, Rome, just — just —”

 

There’s a certain sort of smugness that comes with rendering Dean Ambrose speechless, and Roman likes to think it’s the feeling of his mouth trying to form a smirk around him that sends Dean over the edge. Roman tries to watch as much as he can, the way the muscles of his abdomen ripple and spasm, Dean’s thighs trembling right next to his face, one hand finally letting go of the bunched up sheets to rest on the back of his head, running over his hair once, twice.

 

“The fuck,” is all Dean has to say after Roman pulls off him, everything swallowed down, but it runs all together, more a long groan than anything, and his eyes are somewhere else for a moment before they focus back into the moment. Roman kicks his pants off, those damn socks, too, and stretches out next to Dean, pleased with the little hums that slip through his breaths. “Not what I had planned. But. I like the way your mind works.”

 

There was a time, once, when that phrase, spoken by Dean, may have sent a chill of horror down Roman’s spine. But, for as much as Dean may appreciate his ideas, he thinks he might appreciate the mechanics of Dean’s thoughts and desires even more.

 

“Sure, now you say that, after it gets you laid.” Roman places his palm on the rumpled linens, scooting his hand over so that his pinky finger is touching Dean’s. There’s no real reason for Dean to pull his hand away, but Roman’s stomach still does flips over the fact that he doesn’t.

 

Most people, when they look at Dean, see nothing but clenched fists, but Roman knows that open hands are harder to hold onto, anyway. That’s what he does, now, reaches out and grabs Dean’s hand and doesn’t let go, and Dean relaxes just enough to let their fingers slot together, overlapping skin, before they tighten back up. Something in him hears the word _always_ , quiet as a whisper, underneath the soft touch. “What happened to teaching me some manners?”

 

He honestly doesn’t know where Dean gathers the wherewithal to push up onto one elbow, lounging on his side with a lick of his lips and a downright lecherous expression on his face. “That’s _right_. Almost forgot, what with all the distractions and shit.” His eyes run down Roman’s body, spending what is obviously more time than is strictly necessary on the bulge in his boxers before returning to his face. “Lemme take care’a that.”

 

The offer is more than tempting, but Roman doesn’t want to plant the idea that Dean owes him for giving him something he wanted, that his attention needs to be paid back. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

But Dean moves faster than Roman expected, swings a leg over his thighs and settles there. He’s still holding Roman’s hand, and his other one is hot against Roman’s side as he somehow manages to glance up through his eyelashes despite hovering over Roman. “Please.” Because, damn Dean Ambrose to hell, he knows.

 

It’s not a weakness. Really.

 

Who is Roman to deny that.


End file.
